Donovan stooped down to examine poor Waif's injuries.
“I fear there is little to be done,” he said. “But we might take him across to the chemist's opposite. Will you hold my whip for me?”
She took it, and with infinite skill and tenderness Donovan lifted the fox terrier, while Erica hurried on in front to tell the chemist. They took Waif into a little back room, and did all they could for him; but the chemist shrugged his shoulders.
“Better kill the poor brute at once, Mr. Farrant,” he said, blandly.
Donovan looked up with a strange gleam in his eyes.
“Not for the world!” he exclaimed, with a touch of indignation in his tone.
And after that he only spoke to Erica, who, seeing that the chemist had annoyed him undertook all the fetching and carrying, never once shrinking though the sight was a horrible one. At length the footman brought word that Mrs. Fane-Smith was waiting, and she was obliged to go, reluctantly enough.
“You'll let me know how he gets on?” she said.
“Yes, indeed,” he replied, not thanking her directly for her help, but somehow sending her away with the consciousness that they had passed the bounds of mere acquaintanceship, and were friends for life.
She found that her aunt had been waylaid by Mr. Cuthbert.